always the same old message.

She washed out her handkerchief and then used it to clean her hands and face and neck. Even with only cold water and without soap or other conveniences, she felt better for it. Elizabeth listened to Bears while she un plaited her hair and finger—combed it, sorting out every tangle until her hair fairly stood on end, snapping and crackling with energy. There was a clean shift in her pack, an appealing idea, but then Elizabeth looked down at herself and decided that she would wait to change until she could have some sort of bath, even if it was in the cold waters of the lake they had passed on the way to the cabin, the one called Little Lost. With a sigh, she spread her wet handkerchief on a rock in the sun and walked back around the corner to the clearing. There she stopped short, for Bears was no longer alone.

* * *

He was without a doubt the biggest man she had ever seen. Far bigger than her uncle Merriweather, who dwarfed all the men of the neighborhood. Bigger than Bears by half a head, at least, and half again as broad. Not fat, certainly, but layered with slabs of muscle. When he turned toward her it seemed to take forever, and to go on with the thoughtfulness of a tree flexing in the wind. He was old, more than seventy: the great sweeping mustache, his eyebrows, and the hair tied to a tail at the nape of his neck were blindingly white. His eyes, slate—blue, peered out at her from a nest of wrinkles.

Two things happened when their gazes met, both of which surprised Elizabeth. He smiled shyly, revealing a set of teeth as astoundingly white as his hair, and at the same time he blushed a shade of scarlet she had never before seen on any human being, male or female. This change in color was so furious, fast, and profound, and it flared so bright in contrast to his hair and teeth, that she was immediately put in mind of aunt Merriweather's prize rose campion, rose—red blossoms with their cover of woolly white down. Her own smile faltered to see him color so, for she thought that he must be uneasy about her sudden appearance.

He had pulled the cap from his head and stood at attention, although he did not look away.

"So here she is, then," he said. His voice was soft and somewhat higher than she would have guessed, on the basis of his size.

"But look at her, she's nae but a great mass o' hair and eyes sac big as moons. A bonnie thing, tae be sure, but ower young tae be oot traipsin' through the bush withe likes o' you, Bears." He bowed in Elizabeth's direction with tight military precision. "So there's nocht tae do but make ours el acquaint'. Robert MacLachlan, at your service, Mistress Bonner."

"Please." Elizabeth glanced at Bears, who was clearly content to stand back and watch her handle this encounter on her own. "Please do call me Elizabeth."

"Oh, no, that wa dna do." His color had faded somewhat, but then he tilted his head hopefully and it flared again.

"I would like you to," she said. "I would be honored."

"Wad ye noo? And wha' will ye call me, then?"

"Whatever you like." Elizabeth laughed.

"Aye weel. Ma mither called me Rob, and most o' ma friends call me Robbie, but Cora Bonner, bless her immortal soul, Cora called me Robin."

"For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy," quoted Elizabeth, and she thought that he might ignite, so bright did he blush. "From Shakespeare," she explained, embarrassed for herself more than for him.

"Oh, aye. Hamlet. Though the man borrowed Sweet Robin fra' an auld Scots song." He threw her a sideways glance. "But he put it tae guid use, wi' Hamlet. Will ye read aloud, then, if ye're asked nicely?"

"I have done," she said solemnly. "Though I have no books with me."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Aye, but I do. Great lot o' good it does me, though, for ma eyes canna manage the print on the page these days. Muny's the evenin' I spent at Lake in the Clouds listenin' tae Cora read, and readin' in turn." He raised one perfect eyebrow. "She was a rare woman, was Cora."

"So everyone tells me," Elizabeth said. "But I see the evidence of it, in her son."

He smiled at that. "Aye, so ye must, tae hae marrit the man. Ne'er took a wife, myself', for the only one wha' wad hae suited me had been langsyne acquent wi' Hawkeye by the time I met her. Forbye, her fait her wa dna hae looked kindly on me, wi' me bein' nought but a common sodjer. Mind you, 'gin Hawkeye ha dna seen her first—" His color sputtered like the flame of a poorly cleaned wick. "But wha' am I thinkin'? I'll fetch ye sum thing—wad ye care for a wee bit o' ale? Yon venison is ripe for the eatin'. Come and set yersel', lass. No, bide a while, that log's no' a suitable place." He stood scratching his head for a moment and then walked over to the woodpile. After a moment's consideration, he went down on his knees to heft a stump which Elizabeth would not have been able to span with both arms. It was as high as her knee, and it made a considerable thud when he set it on the ground. Then he fetched a fox pelt from the cabin and spread it neatly.

"You'll set better so," he said with a shy smile.

After quite a bit of back and forth, attention to the fire, and concern for Elizabeth's comfort, they were finally settled around the pit with bowls of stew, Elizabeth on her makeshift throne and the men with their legs stretched before them. Robbie insisted that she take his only spoon, a great scoop like affair carved of wood which looked quite reasonable in his own tremendous fist but dwarfed Elizabeth's. The stew was hot enough to burn her mouth, but she ate the fresh meat with great pleasure. Runs-from-Bears showed his usual abstemious ness eating quickly and then leaving them to go back to work on the hide, close enough to hear without taking part in the conversation. Robbie ate slowly, although Elizabeth wondered that he managed at all between his solicitous concern for her comfort and the stories he had to tell of Cora and how he had met her when she was visiting her father.